


My Name Is Jack

by dogbite_propaganda



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe— Mad Max: Fury Road, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogbite_propaganda/pseuds/dogbite_propaganda
Summary: [Repost]"My name is Jack. My world is fire and blood. Once, I lived with purpose. A road warrior searching for a righteous cause.As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy.Me......or everyone else."---After years of torture at the hands of a war lord, Jack has finally scraped his way to freedom just to be snatched up again. This time taken to more hospitable territory, a single motive takes precedence at the forefront of his broken mind. Revenge.
Relationships: Minor Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler - Relationship, Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	My Name Is Jack

**Author's Note:**

> All tags are subject to change.

_ ‘Hello? _

_ Where are you? _

_ Where are you, Jack?’ _

Coalitions of dust kicked up with every step he took, stinging at his eyes and attacking his airways as he was left with no choice but to breathe it all in. 

Five days, if his count was correct. Five days since his prized Interceptor finally gave way, years of War Boys mistreating her taking their toll. Sand coated her engine in a gritty blanket; weighing heavily on the bearings, starving the oil passages, and polishing her insides in ways that would burden even the most experienced mechanics with a tumor of jealous rage. He couldn’t blame her, though. She’d taken him four days forward and put nearly five thousand miles between him and that wretched hell hole he’d fought tooth and nail to escape from. Twenty three hundred days plus the ones he couldn’t remember. All he knew was pain and bloodshed and hoping for, no  _ relying on, _ a chance to escape. 

After four hundred days, he stopped putting up physical fights regularly. Most of his time was bided by thinking of escape plans, memorizing the schedule of the Organic Mechanic and slowly learning— adapting to— her mannerisms. He could tell when she was going to go for him, she liked to use him. Jack knew that was because of his ‘situation.’ He was treated better than the other Blood Bags there, in comparison. Beaten, strung upside down, drained of his lifesource, and treated like an animal? Absolutely. But there was a difference between him and the others. His blood was special, that’s what she told him. Her hissing whispers in his ear were constant, murmurs of praise.  _ ‘This is what makes you valuable, dear feral. This and nothing more’  _ She would coo in condescending plaudit. Every time she did, she merely stoked the frenzied fires in his belly but it was those words that set him apart from the others. Those words that made him valuable livestock rather than a convenient hunt.

The Organic savored his blood, kept his body as healthy as she was able to given that he was kept in a suspended cage for the majority of his life there. There were a few times he’d managed to wiggle free of his bindings, escape his captors when they’d take him out for a rare bath, but as he continued to do so, they got smarter. He was left punished, the method depending on  _ her _ mood. Sometimes something as simple as a few prods with a shock stick, sometimes things more severe. Sometimes she would see how long he could last without food and laugh as he crawled at her feet like a ravenous mutt when she’d throw a scrap to the filth stained floor of the Blood Shed. Sometimes she would let the War Boys have at him, let them chase him down and beat him like a fresh kill. Though it always ended the same; he always ended up back in the cage. 

Somehow, after so many days— countless days— he managed to slip through her fingers. By digging a sizable gash into his wrist with the rusting metal of cuffs that clasped his hands behind his back, he was able to use his own blood as a lubricant to slip them free. The shackles on his feet were a bit more difficult to get off, requiring him to grow more innovative and use broken bars from his cage as files to erode the heavily rusted chain connecting his ankles. But he did it nonetheless. The one thing he couldn’t shake was that damned muzzle, stuck on his face since his first day when he’d torn one of the War Boys’ throats out in his initial effort to escape. He could still remember the feeling of blood cascading down his chin and dripping onto the floor, the sound no more than a macabre parody of trickling water. 

His final decision was that the muzzle could come off later, the time for escape was upon him. All he needed was a plan. So, he waited. For days he waited to see if she noticed he was free from his bindings, refusing to give his shoulders the circulation they craved until he knew she was gone. And after three days, he kicked out the bottom of his cage in the middle of the night, made his way to the garages, and stole back his Interceptor. Alongside a hefty amount of guzzoline and what he hoped would be enough rations to sustain him until the next trading town, of course. But four days down the road he was left stranded with no other choice than to get up and walk. 

Walking through the wastes was dangerous for a number of reasons. If the sun didn’t take you first, the Buzzards would. They weren’t like the Rock Riders or the tribes, who simply protected their own territory when a threat appeared. The Buzzards would scour the sandy badlands and kill anything in their path, rip it to shreds until nothing but blood and bone remained— sometimes not even  _ that  _ much. But by that time, the least of his worries were the Buzzards.

Jack’s rations lasted him three more days, his water two. His fifth day of walking was slowly coming to a close and the only thing he could do was be grateful that the spirits would allow him a peaceful death as the night air cooled his burning flesh. At least, that would have been the case if he were lucky. 

But Jack was never lucky. 

As he lay on the hard ground, the sun setting and a temperate chill settling in the breeze, Jack readied himself to succumb to his fate. To breathe his last. Somehow he’d always knew it would come down to this; Starving, half dead in the sand with nothing but the sun’s setting rays and his thoughts. His ghosts. Even after all this time they still raged, persistent in his ear to taunt him endlessly with his many failures. 

_ ‘Where are you, Jack?  _

_ Jack Morrison... _

_ Help us, Jack! _

_ You promised to help us…’ _

The voices cried out in his mind. Sometimes they pleaded for him. Sometimes they resented him. But they were ever present, remaining with him to echo in his mind everything he had loved and everything he had lost. 

Though, the turbulent travesty he knew as ‘peace’ was short lived, the rumbling of the rocks alerting him to approaching cars. Big cars and a lot of them. Forcing his aching body up, his left knee screaming in agony as he did so, he watched with wide eyes as headlights raced toward him over the horizon. The roar of powerful engines disoriented him, his mind unused to hearing anything other than the voices of the souls that he’d damned. 

Refocusing his sights, he began to head north, limping as far as he could from the road he’d initially been following. It was a road made simply by multiple trips rather than asphalt or gravel. Made after the world had been poisoned and turned to shit, but a road no less. Going off course a few miles and allowing himself to lay down and die in a less frequented area would do him good anyways. His pace was slow and painful, but unwaveringly steady. If he could just put enough distance between himself and the road, whoever was in those vehicles might not see him. 

However still, whatever meager leftover light the sun had to offer was enough for the prying eyes of these new threats to spot him, the one speck of motion in an otherwise deathly still wasteland. 

“What the hell is that?” A voice called over the rumble of the engines, a truck slowing to an idle as three bodies jumped down to approach. 

“A person?” Another questioned, closer than he would’ve liked. Jack continued his efforts toward a futile escape, the only thought in his mind being that he would die a free man. But the strangers only grew nearer. “Out here in the wastes?” 

“It can’t be…” Sounded off the third stranger, causing Jack to startle at how close he sounded. All of this effort, all of this anguish he struggled through to pull himself a few meager meters from the road. It almost felt as thought the fates were laughing at his stupidity. As if he should be offered such a serene death after everything he’d done. 

A hand on his shoulder put him into high gear and he turned on his heel, snarling with an animosity unmatched by even the most savage of wolves. The men there reared back, two of them calling to their brothers as the third stared at him with something akin to disgust. 

“It has a muzzle on it! It’s a raging feral!” One called, backing away as Jack continued to gnarl at them with the echo of a former threat. They wouldn’t be able to decipher it beneath his layers, but truth be told he wouldn’t be able to stave them off when they came for him. Despite this, he put up a fight, a rather good one if he said so himself— which he did. It took four of the buggers to hold him down, six to haul his unwilling form to the truck and to his credit, he fought them every step of the way, weakened as he may be. 

“What should we do with it?” One man asked, reaching for a canteen that Jack focused on with the kind of intensity only a man three days starved of water could have. Now that he was anchored in place in the bed of the truck, he was able to warily eye men there. They weren’t painted white, grease stains marked their skin but did not cake only around their eyes, and their bodies lacked the familiar scarification that he would’ve dreaded to see. So these weren’t Akande’s War Boys… They came from somewhere else, somewhere different. Jack didn’t know if he liked the idea of different, almost more comfortable with the threat of returning to the twisted sense of normalcy he’d gathered back in the Organic Mechanic’s Blood Shed.

“I guess… take it back to the Citadel?” Another offered, loose reluctance making it’s home on his shoulders. Jack grunted his disagreement, tugging at his arms in yet another effort to free himself. “We can’t leave it here, it’ll die by day’s end.” 

In an instant, Jack’s head fell to the side in a tilt of interest at the statement. Empathics were a dying breed and yet there he sat, cradled in a truckload of them as they all agreed that this was their best course of action. 

“We’d better fang it, doesn’t seem like this feral can last much longer without proper water… and I’d rather wait for our Mercy work her charms on it than stick my hands near it’s teeth.” The man with the canteen piped up again. The other’s agreed. 

“Thunder up! Back to the Citadel!” Called a man hanging off of the truck’s driver side door and once again the engines exploded in a deafening howl. The entourage continued to make its way toward the setting sun but the promise of water did not soothe him in the wake of a new prison. No matter how powerless his tugs were, how unsteady his balance grew to be, and how excruciating the weight on his knee became as he knelt in the bed of the truck, he continued his struggles. He would not go down like this, not without a fight.

✩

Firelight caught his attention before anything else; an easy feat seeing as the darkness swallowed up anything else that would’ve been seen. He watched as shadows danced within the orange glow, taunting him with the attempt of false comfort. He was driven into some sort of underground garage, very different from that of Akande’s Citadel. At Talon, all vehicles must be risen up into the towering structures and away from the Wretched that hugged the bases of the rocks the Citadel was built on. There was only room within it’s walls for those favored by Him; His War Boys, His sons, and His precious wives. Here there were no Wretched that stuck themselves to the sides of the imposing tower like leeches, not from what he could see at least. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps the darkness hid that from him too. 

Inside there were many torches that lined the walls and bathed everything around it in a pleasant light. But the warmth of it did little to ease the tension in Jack’s bones. For a long while, he kept still and almost malleable in the arms of the three men holding him down, allowing them to feel that they had control for the time being. He was held there for many minutes after the truck halted, the driver, passenger, and driver’s second stepped down from the truck and headed off deeper into the castle’s maw. Only the driver’s second returned and he did so with a woman. She was strong, sturdily built in a similar way to Akande’s imperator Zarya. The woman ordered the remaining men out of the truck, thus pulling Jack out with it. 

The instant his feet touch the ground, his temper kicked up again and Jack is somehow able to pull the two men that had previously been holding onto his arms to the ground. He lunges for one of them, tearing at any piece of exposed flesh he could get his hands, leaving the man’s neck and arms drenched in the blood of his newly mangled wounds. A powerful grip made its presence known at the scruff of his neck, redirecting Jack’s anger toward the woman. He kicked at her, growled and snapped like the savage animal he’d become, the one Akande turned him into. 

In his distracted state, another four men were able to keep him still— well… still enough— as the woman glared down at him with a look of antipathy sharp in her eyes. 

“Senseless ferals, causing more trouble than they’re worth.” She spat, an unfamiliar accent heavy in her voice. 

“What do we do with it, Fareeha?” One of the men questioned, tending to his fallen brother that had since shuffled out of Jack’s reach. 

“You take him to Angela. She will be livid if she sees that I’ve kept him from her.” 

Each word individually was something Jack could understand but when slung into that sentence, he found himself at a loss for what it meant. Angela… this meant he was meeting another new face, another person he was unaccustomed to. And she would be upset if Jack was kept away from her… The only reason that came to his mind on  _ why _ this would cause her anger was the assumption that she wished to deform his body further. And she wished to do so with haste. Just as the Organic had done. Perhaps this place was not so dissimilar after all. 

Hauling his form through the Citadel’s narrow staircases seemed to be just as tiring for the men taking him as it was for Jack to struggle. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe they would all collapse in exhaustion and he could try to make a break for it back down to the garage. Maybe he could steal one of their trucks, make his way back to the Interceptor, fix her engine even. It was a pipe dream. He knew it was. Despite the ceaseless fight in his soul, Jack’s body was unable to be as relentless and breathing became a task to struggle with on his own. The dizziness in his mind grew more incessant just as the headache behind his eyes raged with further exasperation. 

Finally, on the third staircase, his left knee gave out completely. Between the torture of his last two thousand days, the strain of walking on it for five more, and his constant strife with the men who captured him, the unyielding agony was enough to down even the mightiest of beasts. The men seemed almost relieved as the militancy in Jack’s bones settled from his body, instead replaced by arduous breaths and an almost compliant behavior. He still grunted at them, tried to twist his body away, but it was apathetic. Somehow even weaker than it was before. 

Led into a new room, only after stumbling through several very dizzying corridors, Jack was finally granted the rest his aching body craved so fiercely. The men pushed him down onto a table not unlike those that the Organic liked to strap the victims of her next experiments to. Only these were not bloodied; they did not smell of fetid meat and stale vomit. The entire room was pristine; no Blood Bags hanging from cages suspended several meters above the floor, no sickly War Boys or Pups, the stench of death did not hang in the air as he was used to. Everything was so pristine. 

In a sickeningly familiar scene, however, Jack found himself lying on his stomach, limbs pinned by unwavering grips as his head hung in defeat. It happened again… Nine days. For nine days he had taken hold of his freedom. On death’s door as he was, he was still free. And yet all of that suffering was for naught as he lay still, almost willing. The fight in him was fading and he was unsure if it would come back this time. 

‘ _ Jack? Is that you?’ _

The wide green eyes of a familiar child stared into his own with a trusting curiosity. Jolting in his surprise, he was pulled back to reality by the strong grip on his limbs. In place of the black haired child was a woman. Her hair was blonde but not like his, no. It was almost white in color, angelic in a way, and greatly contrasting the golden shade his own. Concern was laced in her expression as she knelt before him, her gentle eyes nonthreatening. A half-hearted growl rumbled low in his chest when she lifted a hand toward his caged face. Jerking away from her touch, he settled only when she produced a canteen. 

“Your body aches for water,” She called quietly, her voice a siren’s song in his hazy mind. She too had an accent he couldn’t identify but it was different from the woman in the garage. Placid, calming.

Pushing the bore of the flask into the space between the muzzle and his jaw, Jack hissed at the sting as the rusted metal reopened the fresher wounds that it constantly dug into his skin. But all was forgotten when he was able to take those first few life saving drinks of water. Swallowing it down eagerly, he kept going with the thought in mind that he would take all this woman gave him. This water was unlike any he’d had while he was being kept as a Blood Bag and he couldn’t help but indulge in the purity of it. This water was  _ clean _ . It didn’t sting as it slid down his already aching throat and the taste of it wasn’t tainted and rancid as he was used to. A low whine fell from him when she pulled it away and she wavered before capping the canteen and stowing it back onto her belt. 

“Drink too quickly and you’ll upset your stomach.” She hushed him, resting a benign hand atop the matted hair on his head. Jack settled, deciding that risking his new found water supply wasn’t worth sending any non-verbal threats her way. “I’d like to check your wounds now… Will you let me?”

Hazy, gunmetal blue eyes averted for a few moments. He didn’t answer her, but he was able to hold back a flinch when she pressed her free hand to the parts of his cheek she could reach through the mask. This allowed a tender smile to grace her, making her seem even more ethereal in his mind, and Jack tried not to tense when she left his range of vision. One by one, she coaxed the layers of his clothing from his torso. His heavy leather jacket, torn and stiff from it’s old age, was the first to go. It’d sat in the trunk of his car for many days and Jack wondered how none of the War Boys found it and took it for their own. But he was grateful for it. That and the woven bracelet on his wrist were the only two belongings he had left from his time before that spent at Akande’s Citadel— he cherished them both deeply.

Thankfully, the woman— he assumed her to be either the ‘Mercy’ or ‘Angela’ or both that he heard about— folded the jacket gently and set it to the side. The next thing that came off was the maroon undershirt he wore, simply cut away just as the black tank top beneath it was. His back and torso were both riddled wounds, new and old. Some clotted, some scared, a few fresh and still bleeding, likely torn open during his fitful attempts to regain his freedom. The fresh ones festered, agitated with the dirty state of his previous living conditions and he listened as the woman fussed over them. She cleaned and bandaged them with nimble hands, taking the time she needed to sew the few exceptionally deep ones shut. Jack tried to keep still for no other reason than to keep himself from worsening the pain he already felt. When she finally finished her task, she removed her invasive touch and in the most rudimentary way, Jack was able to relax. This, as always, did not last long. 

Heavy footsteps outside alerted him and he glanced under the table as far as he could to stare at the woman’s shoes. He couldn’t see whoever entered when the door was thrust open either, he only knew that their footsteps were heavy and purposeful. A pair of sturdy combat boots took their place next to the woman and the tension returned to Jack's limbs, putting the men holding him on edge. 

At the feel of fingers on his back, resting right beneath the old brand scar that nestled itself between Jack’s shoulder blades, he once again hassled with the men holding him. Throwing his weight with afresh surge of anarchy in his heart, Jack released a bellowed cry of defiance. He was angry with his current tribulations and he wanted the woman and her acquaintance to know this. Ignoring the soreness of his muscles, Jack continued his unyielding and spirited ferocity briefly wondering just how his body, in spite of the weariness that had made a home in his very bones, continued to move so unwaveringly. He reasoned that it may just be his body’s final ‘ _ hurrah!’ _ until it gave out completely and he fell lifeless onto the table beneath him. He pondered whether or not that would be such a bad thing. 

Cool, slim fingers rose to his shoulders as the woman’s soothing voice whispered quiet reassurance into his ear. 

“You’re alright.” she promised, her hand returning to his unkempt, cropped hair. For a moment, he calmed. He allowed her chilled fingers to return to the place where they originally were, just beneath the brand, and huffed out an annoyed breath. He didn’t want her touch, but he was allowing it for the time being. 

“Akande’s mark,” He hears the woman murmur to her unseen partner and Jack perks up in recognition. So the people here knew of the war lord. Calloused fingers, warm and imposing on his already scorching skin, join the woman’s hand on his back. The unwanted touch danced just below the nape of his neck where his identification tattoo rested, deeply set into his skin. Remembrance of the needle’s searing bite filled his thoughts and he retained the memories of the Organic’s heavy hand while she carved the letters into his skin. A heavy shudder chased down his spine with the same force of a fisherman’s knife filleting the underbelly of a fresh catch. Thrashing in his place with untamed vigor, wanting nothing more than this unknown threat to remove their hands, Jack growled in his agitation. But the hand stayed in place, tracing the words with slow deliberation. Jack could feel what the letters spelt out as they were gone over, he remembered what the Organic had sewn into his skin. 

_ High Octane _

_ O-Negative _

_ Universal _

Simple words but words that marked his worth. Words that ensured no one would wish him dead but guaranteed all would desire to be his keeper. This mark was no more than an affliction he was tasked with, an assurance that he could no longer trust those around him. Which was why his body grew taut with tension when he finally heard the unknown man speak. 

“This one could be of use.” This was an accent Jack recognized as from the east. Far east, over the oceans that once were. Though, he wouldn’t be able to place a name to the original language no matter how hard he wracked his brain. That same hand swiped a thumb over the words on Jack’s neck tauntingly. He couldn’t do anything about it in his current position, stuck and forced to allow the undesired interaction to continue. There was a clear message this unknown man was trying to portray with his touch. 

_ Surrender. Comply. Submit.  _

Another growl sounded from Jack’s throat as he bucked against the man’s hold. 

“We will not just take it from him, that isn’t what we stand for.” The woman held strong, her gaze unwavering as she looked into the man’s stern glare. 

“Look at these marks that riddle it’s neck,” The man mused, his hand sliding his up further until it rested hotly against the dip where Jack’s neck and shoulder met. “It's used to such treatment by now. We’ll be doing it a favor by occupying it with familiar tasks. It’s what  _ He _ did—” 

“We are not him!” The woman snapped, pulling the man’s heated touch away. Jack couldn’t help the sigh of relief that left him when she did, replacing it with her own cool hands. Hands that he was far less uncomfortable with. “I will not allow him to be used. He’s a person, people are not things.” 

“Angela,” The man tried but she only steadied the man with her own strict eye. He quieted, though not before a huff of annoyance left him. 

The woman—  _ Angela _ — knelt before Jack again, hands reaching out slowly, faltering when his head flinched away. She tries to calm him with gentle hushes and calls of  _ ‘you’re alright’ _ to which he wants to tell her isn’t helping him. He wants to trust her, wants to give her the tamed behavior he knows she wants from him, but he can’t. He can’t because he’s afraid. Fear laps at his heart as greedily as a water starved coyote, keeping all of his nerves on end with a ferocity that refuses to settle no matter how exhausted his body becomes. 

When her thin hands rest on either side of the muzzle, he pauses, fixing her with a cautious stare that almost held a semblance of hope within it. Almost, but not quite. Her hands reached back steadily, gliding along the decaying metal before falling to the lock. Tremors wracked his body as he stared toward Angela with wild anticipation, brows drawn together as if he didn’t believe she would actually take the god forsaken thing off of his face. So many days, thousands of days was that infernal  _ thing _ clasped against his face, scraping against his cheeks, corroding the skin at his jaw, and leaving a deep rooted, unhindered headache to eat at the top and back of his skull. Another constant agony that he’d learned to live with. After a while he became just as used to the migraines as he did the ceaseless hunger that gnawed at his stomach. 

The instant the lock clattered against the metal at the holding point of the muzzle, the unknown man’s hand was gripping Angela’s arm. Jack couldn’t help the animosity in his growl as he yanked his head in the opposite direction. Baring his teeth ferociously at the man, unwavered as spittle slicked down his chin and dripped to the floor, Jack’s nose wrinkled in his anger.  _ ‘Just how many things will you do to be on my shit list?’ _ Jack pondered in his mind as the man stepped away with Angela in hand. 

“It’s muzzled for a reason.” Is all he says, shooing Angela away as though her presence has grown bothersome for him. Jack doesn’t doubt that, to an extent, it’s true. He’s unsure if the man cares for her or sees her as a responsibility. He doesn’t care to know. 

The man paces in front of him, crouching down to grab at his jaw and forcing Jack’s thundery blue eyes to stare into his own steel grey. Jerking his head back with a frenzied force, Jack snarled at the man before him in the same ways a snapping fox would when cornered by a hunter. Another beat of silence passed before the man spoke again, this time to the men.

“Take this feral mutt and toss it in a cage where it belongs. Let the Reaper deal with it.” 

✩

The ‘cage’ as it turns out, seemed to be a holding cell of sorts. There was a small window, facing east, his internal compass tells him, into the desert where he could stare into the blazing heat for hours. A small cot lay on the floor. Other than that, there was nothing. No blanket, either, but thankfully, the men had given him his jacket back in the very least. 

If the goal of this cage was to keep him out of sight and mind, it would not work. He did not bide his time in a docile manner and he made sure the men who put him there didn’t forget where he was. What he was. Instead, he clawed at the cave walls until his fingertips were raw and bleeding, he screamed out deep war cries in his tantrum, and he bloodied his knuckles punching the door. 

Nine days. Nine days of ongoing sunstroke, nine days of dehydration, but nine days of  _ freedom _ . Nine days of being owned by no one, nine days of choosing his own destiny, and for what? To be taken against his will just as he got a taste of what he’d lost so long ago? What he’d been striving for ever since? 

Hours upon hours passed by, the only evidence that time had gone was the sun’s slow rise on the horizon, dyeing the black night sky a bountiful blue. He could still see the faint outline of the moon as he sat, finally curled onto the cot with nothing but his jacket to comfort him. With his throat tender from the unpractice usage and his hands sore from the abuse he put them through, Jack sat with his back pressed flat against the far wall and he watched. Waited. 

Eventually someone would come.

More hours passed and the sun was slowly taking it’s throne at the peak of the world when he heard it. Footsteps. Approaching footsteps. 

“How long has he been quiet?” An unfamiliar voice questions and Jack hurried himself to stand, approaching the door to listen in on the conversation, the words spoken muffled behind the weight of the wood. 

This must be  _ him. _ The Reaper.

“More than a few hours,” was the answer given. “But I don’t think it’s slept.” 

This assumption was correct. He hadn’t slept, couldn’t have if he wanted to for his veins were alight with sparks of impending vengeance. 

_ ‘The door opens outward.’ _ His thoughts screamed to him, repeating those words like the mauntra would be his only saving grace. Maybe it would. If the door opened outward, it would be harder to shut on him once it was fully extended and he would have a better chance of escaping. Of tasting that sweet freedom once more. This time, he would taste it for longer than nine days. He would taste it forever. He listened to a set of footsteps leave but they were different than the ones that approached, heavier, filled with the weight of tiredness. One man remained. 

It was him. This was the Reaper.

_ ‘The door opens outward.’ _ He was reminded again. And he readied himself at the furthest end of the room, watching as the door opened. 

It opened outward. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr Plug](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dogbite-propaganda/)  
> Note: This fic is unbeta-ed, I'll be sure to fix the mistakes I find
> 
> I posted this fic a long while ago, sometime in Oct. 2019 I think but, I deleted it hoping to clean it up and post after I had a more cohesive story down lol,, that didn't happen for a long ass time bc I started hyperfixating on another ship BUT I watched Fury Road again recently and got really hyped,, so here I am
> 
> This beginning chapter, to this day, is what I believe some of my best writing and I'm still really proud of it even if it is a little more flowery than what I've been doing recently haha,, I've gotta re-write ch. 2 and then everything afterward is from scratch oof, but hopefully I'll be able to actually end it this time instead of abandoning it,, 
> 
> Thanks for checking it out :] can't wait to update further


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